


I'll Run Away With You

by SomehowStillSane



Category: Bandom, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance, The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)
Genre: M/M, not sure where this is going yet but i'll clean up the info as i go, will add tags and archive warnings as they apply
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 19:50:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13934082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomehowStillSane/pseuds/SomehowStillSane
Summary: Fun Ghoul and Kobra Kid's origin story.





	I'll Run Away With You

**Author's Note:**

> Right, so, I have a fairly basic idea of where this is going, but I'm unsure about what specific plots I'm going to work in, so we will see. Basically, I have had a lot of ideas about the killjoys universe for a long, long time, and I need to get it into written form. I was contemplating writing this whole thing before posting it, but seeing as I expect it to be long and I'm impatient as well as needy for feedback, I figured I had enough for a first chapter. So let's fuckin do it.

“Good morning!” Her pre-recorded voice always came across way too cheery, always kind of made Frank want to throw his BL/ind-manufactured headphones across the room just to shut her up. “It’s time to start your day!”

Frank groaned, taking off the headphones and tossing them away before rolling off his bed, shuffling over to his dresser to pull on his clothes. Get dressed. Brush your teeth. Eat your breakfast. Take your pills. He hardly even tried to deviate from his little routine anymore, at least not on purpose; in Battery City rebelliousness was rewarded with higher doses and more therapies.

That wasn’t to say he hadn’t tried, many times- once he’d smashed his headphones to bits, the other time he’d simply stopped taking his meds, choosing to flush them straight down the toilet instead. Of course, he hadn’t thought about the fact that Better Living would’ve known immediately when his headphones stopped signalling, and he hadn’t realized they tested his fucking plumbing for contaminants on the regular. He’d been told they tested across the city regularly to make sure there weren’t any spreading diseases, but Frank wasn’t dumb; you can’t just test for food poisoning and accidentally find traces of meds. Both instances had ended with his stay in a mental hospital, locked up for weeks with other problem kids and dosed with enough happy pills to feel like he was floating.

And he was happy, wasn’t he? At least, that’s what he told his countless therapists, counselors, psychiatrists to keep them off his back and avoid increases of medications that made you feel like a fucking brainless zombie.

At least, they made him feel that way at first. Every time. They’d increase, he’d be exactly what they wanted him to be for about a month, and then the effects would fade. He could kind of tell they were getting close, though- every time, when the effects faded, they’d fade a little less, and he’d be left just a little more out of it. It scared the shit out of him.

Not like he could do anything about it, though.

 

~~~

 

Back to school, dressed in that damned boring white uniform, shuffling through the crowded hallways on his way to class. This was his last year. Just a few weeks until graduation, and then he was supposed to go into Upper Extermination Training, recommended to Better Living for it by his counselor. “Use all that anger and independence,” she’d said. Apparently a lot of Exterminators had been ‘troubled youth’, supposedly it demonstrated some kind of amazing leadership ability. But he’d met some, and they all gave him chills- he’d shook the Head Exterminator’s hand at some field trip, and it’d felt like touching death itself. Frank was pretty sure he was even more terrified of becoming  _ that _ than he was of becoming a zombie.

Whether or not he was scared of it didn’t matter, though. You got shaped into what the city needed, whether you wanted to be or not. He was top of his career class, despite the fact that the curriculum made him sick to his stomach half the time. His first two years hadn’t been too bad, mostly it was memorization of Battery City laws and regulations: these haircuts were banned, these styles were permitted. Of course, Frank was forced into a much smaller box than most; he didn’t get to experiment with the carefully designated subcultures or any false individuality, not anymore. It was his fourth year, he was expected to be getting serious about his future career, and that meant Drac-style white suits, complete with tie and all. His mom said they made him look handsome; Frank thought they made him look one step closer to the Grim Reaper.

This year, though… this year had been sickening. Memorizing rebel’s names and faces, their aliases, their known regular habits and weaknesses.  _ Weaknesses _ usually referred to relatives or close friends; sometimes other rebels, but most of the time, innocent city-dwellers. They ran through practice scenarios of it all over the past two months: exactly how to fucking  _ kidnap _ someone from their own apartment without actually physically harming them, how to elicit the most tears to draw the rebel out, how to  _ wipe it all away _ once the rebel was in custody, so they’d never remember that their son or spouse or best friend had died or been brainwashed because of them. Frank had almost puked during the first practice scenario. A few of his classmates had lost their shit, leading to their withdrawal from the program and their months-long disappearances, returning with absolutely no memory of any of their training. Frank was supposed to pretend he didn’t know them, because _ they _ no longer knew  _ him _ .

He was jerked abruptly out of his thoughts when someone walked into him, some skinny-looking kid with glasses and a beanie, lightly whacking Frank in the gut with a textbook before accidentally dropping his entire armful of papers. The kid squeaked an apology with wide-eyes, clearly terrified when he noticed he’d run into one of the uniformed S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W students, but Frank just mumbled a distracted “‘s fine,” smiling in a way he hoped was reassuring and bending down to help recollect all the shit the boy had dropped.

“You don’t need to help, it’s fine- I swear it’s fine, just go, it’s fine,” the other boy insisted, hurriedly shuffling up the books and papers. His voice was unusually panicked, but Frank figured he was just anxious about being around an academy kid, at least until he saw it: a standard-issue Korse Kicks Butt, volume 3, a comic. Something you weren’t allowed to be reading past 8th grade. It wasn’t anything serious, at least not compared to the crap Frank had done, but it was the kind of thing that earned you specialized therapy, not to mention never seeing the comic again. Frank picked it up quietly, looking back at the now-terrified kid. “Please. Please, it’s- just- don’t tell anyone, _ please _ ,” he pleaded quietly, glancing around.

“It’s just a comic,” Frank frowned, a little confused. This kid looked close to tears about it. “They’ll just put you in therapy or something, it’s not that big of a deal-.” He cut himself off when the other boy just rapidly shook his head, looking terrified. Frank bit his lip and looked over his shoulder, trying to decide if they were out of camera view with the people swarming around them. However freaked out this kid was, he’d still just get a talking-to. Frank would end up dosed again, though, with his history, especially considering he was seriously supposed to report shit like this in his position. But the other boy just looked… he looked fucking horrified, like Frank was about to give him some kind of death sentence. After a moment he just quietly stacked some notebooks on top of it and passed it back with a small smile, hurriedly shoving the rest of the papers at him before standing back up and walking away as fast as possible, quickly separating himself from the scene of the crime and from the other boy, before some supervisor could swoop down and drag Frank off to another sparkling white room.

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't really have a good title for this, so my friend suggested some. Let's list em, for posterity. Fuck you Sage.
> 
> -Desert Fags: The Awakening  
> -Frank And Mikey Get Down And Dirty To Loud Heavy Metal: Touch My Body  
> -This Is A Dictatorship: Let's Run Away And Fuck  
> -In Which Mikey And Frank Fuck To Morrissey Unironically Because He Dropped His Comic Books  
> -Frank And Mikey Hold Hands And Have Lame Desert Sex But You Won't See It Because The Author Won't Finish It  
> -Don't Tell Daddy Korse About My Comic Books And I'll Suck Your Dick And "Fall In Love With You"  
> -Whisk Away From Freedom  
> -Why'd This Emo Kid Cry Because He Dropped His Comic Books  
> -Personal Jesus (But His Name Is Frank Iero)  
> -Desert Fags (But Comic Books Involved This Time): The Demonic Duo  
> -Sunbelt Gays  
> -How I Met Your Father: He Dropped His Comic Books And Cried And Then We Ran Away  
> -Desert Fags * Christmas Edition *: Jingle My Balls  
> -Help! My Boyfriend Is A Short S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W And He Wants Me To Run Away With Him  
> -Mikey Runs Away With Frank But Regrets It After He Gets Desert Sand In His Asscrack  
> -This Is Better Than ASOTM
> 
> Around that point he started creating titles having to do with chickens and I just stopped writing them down and tried to get him to shut up. I'll try to get the next chapter posted in a reasonable amount of time assuming anyone cares. XOXO


End file.
